<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Fowl Play by orphan_account</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26003794">Fowl Play</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account'>orphan_account</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arson, Destruction, Flashbacks, Gen, Hallucinations, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 03:55:29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,391</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26003794</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim Starling fucks around and finds out.</p><p>Scenario I thought up, where I theorize how Jim might get to join FOWL...</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>24</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Fowl Play</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jim came to realize that loneliness was the greatest danger in these tunnels.</p><p>Ignoring the occasional mangy rat that skittered through the tunnels, it was empty in here. The only other signs of life came from the rumbles of cars zooming past the streets overhead. Here, it was darker than anything Darkwing Duck would have experienced. Here, it stunk with decomposition and filth. Here, everything was wasted.</p><p>Sewage water, chilly and murky, stung his feet each time he took a step, washing over his blisters and threatening infection. This was no place for a hero like Darkwing Duck to be. </p><p>His stomach screamed, and his throat was dry with dehydration. Logically only a few days should have passed by, but for all he knew, it could have been weeks. Aside from the moments where survival instinct took over, food and water weren’t the first things on his mind---it was revenge.</p><p>Ever since that fateful day, it was all that he could think of. The images of his replacement and the explosion would replay over and over in his head and the word would repeat like a broken record, revenge. Any attempts to sleep were met with pounding headaches and images of a face he swore he would destroy.</p><p>The kid, the fake Darkwing Duck, had set everything up. It was supposed to be Jim’s big comeback, and that kid ruined it all, that was what he rationalized.</p><p>Had he saved the lives of both the replacement and the fan? That was the last thing he could remember, the explosion. Pushing them aside and putting himself in harm’s way...</p><p>The impact of the explosion was the last thing he could recall. His head ached from the resulting trauma, calling attention to the rest of his wounds.</p><p>The last image he saw in his mind before the tape rewound to the replacement’s face was the explosion. A white flash, hotter than the sun’s surface, rippled through his body and seared into his eyes until he was nearly blind and crawling across the floor to safety. After that... nothing.</p><p>The impact had left a persistent ringing in his ears, which he was convinced was an entire crowd jeering and laughing at him, with no way to stop them. </p><p>Jim groaned, exhaling through burning lungs. A glance at the stagnant water reminded him he hadn’t seen his reflection after the explosion. There was no chance he could see himself in the water. A lack of light meant no image could be formed in it.</p><p>However, he didn’t need a reflection to know the state of disrepair his old Darkwing Duck coat was in. The original dye had washed off via a combination of chemicals, heat, and cruel fate. Somehow the colors had inverted themselves, a garish display of yellow and red that stuck out sorely against the night, accented with black. </p><p>He soon realized this new color scheme resembled the explosion. Fate reminded him of what happened, and that it would stick with him forever.</p><p>A change of clothes wasn’t the only thing to happen after the explosion. He wanted revenge, pure and sweet revenge, and he knew he would make everybody’s lives a living hell, especially the replacement. Grim and gritty, he'd promised himself. Nothing would be held back now. If only he had kept the chainsaw from the studio...</p><p>He would get his rightful place back in the acting industry.</p><p>A rumble emerging from his stomach signified not hunger but delight coming from the ecstasy of this newfound goal of destruction in the name of revenge.</p><p>He laughed, and the laughs echoed throughout the tunnel, sending rats scampering away and reverberating back into his ears with a profound crescendo. For one embarrassing second, he wondered if anybody on the surface could hear his laughter, rambling, and the occasional singing of the Darkwing Duck theme. They would think he's insane.</p><p>Let them have cake, he thought. Jim Starling found in sewers, dressed like an explosion and cackling. What a headline.  </p><p>The cackling bout turned to coughs, which rattled his strained lungs and left his eyes watering. He was sure his throat was bleeding from the stress combined with dehydration. </p><p>He coughed again, and the coughs echoed.  </p><p>Echoes.</p><p>Jim’s eyes went wide, looking towards the tunnel ceiling.</p><p>"Ha..." He groaned. "Eh... Hello."</p><p>ELLO, lo, lo.</p><p>Jim stared deep into the tunnels, stretching into the unknown. He stared into the never-ending darkness that lay beyond. Still as stone, his lungs crackled as he heaved, and his twisted brain threatened to combust from his skull.</p><p>He made a vague noise and listened to the resulting echo.</p><p>"Are--" his throat strained, "are you there, God? It's me, Jim Starling."</p><p>LING, ing, ing.</p><p>"Wait a second," Jim muttered, stumbling through the water and staring straight ahead, his legs working on autopilot. "Wait a second."</p><p>As he took another step forward, water sloshed around beneath his feet. He tried not to think of infection.</p><p>"I'm your biggest fan!" He shouted. </p><p>Jim's words echoed back.</p><p>His eyes bulged from his head, bloodshot with rings of blue and green. His bill, cracked and dry and sporting a chemical burn, turned up at the corners. He grinned, baring his yellowed, filthy teeth and causing a rat to scamper away in fright.</p><p>"IS THAT JIM STARLING?!" He screamed, sure he could taste blood in his mouth from the amount of strain on his dried vocal cords.</p><p>He listened to the echoes, taking in the sound of his name coming in, imagining a whole crowd. A crowd clamoring for his name, autographs, and wanting to hold hands with Darkwing Duck himself.</p><p>(On the surface, a pedestrian jumped as he heard screaming from the manhole, an event he was sure he couldn't explain to his wife or colleagues.)</p><p>Jim clapped his hands, each clap louder and faster with each echo that came back. Closing his eyes, he knocked on the tunnel wall several times in succession, imagining a crowd: claps, cheers, and woo-hoos from his fans.</p><p>He took a deep breath and took another step forward.</p><p>Upon opening his eyes, he was greeted with a landscape of fans cheering at him, lights shining high above the stage, and the smells of bouquets and cologne. Gone were the sewer tunnels with its offending darkness and stench, plagued by rats and stagnant, wasteful sewage as fame and glory took its place.</p><p>Grinning from ear to ear, he admired the sights and sounds of a transformed scene and sighed.</p><p>"I love you," He sang, holding his arms out.<br/>The crowd echoed his words back.</p><p>He giggled, a giddy noise coming from his heart and fluttering out of his chest as he listened to his fans tell him how much they admired him.</p><p>"Thank you. Thank you." He sang again, continuing to walk towards the crowd, ignoring the edge of the stage and hypnotized by the amount of praise and attention he was experiencing.</p><p>All the world's a stage...</p><p>He took a deep inhale, and...</p><p>... Squeak?</p><p>He snapped his eyes open and saw a rat in the center of his vision. Falling face-first into the sewage, he gasped, coughed and sputtered as he swore at the rat which had already made its leave while he tripped. He retched at the contents he’d been forced to come in contact with, rubbing at his eyes and spitting out any remaining sewage. </p><p>If the water getting into his blisters and scars wasn’t enough to give him sepsis, surely this would.</p><p>Shaking himself off like a feral animal, he hissed as he leaned against a wall, staring at his now unfortunately familiar surroundings. There had never been crowds of adoring fans, nor a stage or a beautiful night sky. The tunnels stretched far beyond his sight, beckoning at him to keep walking until he eventually died from exposure.</p><p>He wrapped his tattered cape around himself and growled as he shivered. No echoes remained, and he’d lost the energy to scream, now feeling lightheaded.</p><p>There was no way in Hell or Heaven he would end up living in a place as embarrassingly filthy as the sewers. He remembered he had an apartment near the suburbs of St. Canard, where he could stock up on food and supplies to regain his strength.</p><p>He thought about his room key, leftover in a bag at the studio. It wouldn’t be difficult for him to come back and grab the keys, but after some consideration, he knew it would be a waste of time.</p><p>Everybody at the studio probably thought he was dead, and if he was declared dead, that means his bag was likely taken away by forensic investigators, so what was the point?</p><p>Staring into the water, a part of him wished he could see how he looked now after surviving an explosion that should have killed him. Beyond the obvious wardrobe change and wounds, he must have looked half-dead. He smirked devilishly as he imagined the look of mortification on the replacement and fan's faces as Jim Starling came out from six feet under.</p><p>His coat dripped with sewage, which seeped into his feathers and bones. It had once been snug, tailored to fit his measurements give or take a few years of age, but now started to hang off his frame. His hands and legs were getting knobby at the joints, split and cracked through repeated blows. His bones weighed him down as he realized how weak he was getting. The migraine was the cherry on top.</p><p>What had he been doing, stumbling around in the sewer tunnels for days? Was this what Darkwing Duck would do? </p><p>Jim shook his head and, with what remained of his sapping strength, searched for an opening to the surface. A ladder pointed to a sewer drain, and he climbed the rungs until he hit the bottom of the grate. Letting out a deep exhale, he pushed the grate away and wriggled himself through the gap.</p><p>After lying on the pavement for a few seconds to regain his stamina, he pushed himself up and sighed before retreating into an alley. Gazing into the night sky, he thought over what his revenge plans should be and how he would carry them out.</p><p>Weapons, he needed some. Gun, chainsaw, it didn’t matter. Anything capable of serious harm.</p><p>As Jim swallowed, he remembered he needed something vital, and that was water. He needed water, and he knew he had water in his apartment. The only problem in getting back to his apartment was the lack of keys and the worry that it was repossessed after his so-called “death”.</p><p>Holding himself close against the cool wind, Jim walked towards the direction of Canard Apartments and stopped once he arrived at the gate. Tenants were supplied with a key code to get into the parking lot, and it would be both memorized and written on paper.</p><p>He couldn’t recall the code through his frazzled memory, and the scrap of paper he’d written it on was left inside his bag at the studio. </p><p>Without other options, he set his focus on the stone ledge. Bracing himself, he leaped over; the stone scraping at his knees and his arms turning into jelly as he stumbled over to the other side.<br/>Biting his lip, Jim grunted and turned to his side, letting out a shuddering sigh. He waited until the black stars vanished from his vision, and pushed himself up, wincing in pain and rubbing at his hip. Nothing appeared to be broken, but his knees were now bleeding, raw and stinging from the wind. He swore as he remembered a time when he could jump over ledges with ease. </p><p>He limped his way to the apartment complex, taking in the sight of the massive white-and-gray building, with its high iron railings. It looked as poorly as he did, rusting over and crawling with vines, weeds dotting the front yard. Every single window was dark.</p><p>Jim looked up at the rusted iron stairs and sneered, knowing there was no way he’d go up and risk another injury. He mashed the elevator button until it opened, snd stepped in. He watched as the elevator car rumbled as it flew up to the 6th floor, stepping out once it reached its destination.</p><p>His room was numbered 608. He turned the doorknob, it rattling when he wiggled it, refusing to open. He sighed and realized that even if he had his key at the moment, it wouldn’t have helped anyway if a new tenant was coming in. </p><p>Cursing, he pulled at the knob with whatever strength he had left and toppled backward, his behind landing on the floor. He paused, and when nobody came in to investigate, he sighed with relief.</p><p>Standing up, he tapped at the window to his room, inspecting the strength of the glass. If he were Darkwing Duck, he could punch through it with no issue, but this wouldn’t be the case in real life. In the corner of his eye was a planter, set atop a table all pretty and proper.</p><p>Without a second thought, he heaved the planter up and threw it against the window, shattering the glass.</p><p>Both the struggle of carrying a planter and the impact of broken glass left him breathless, swaying slightly as he peered into the shattered window. After using the window hole to unlock the door from the inside, he turned the knob and stepped inside, taking in his surroundings while trying to ignore the cuts from broken glass.</p><p>His apartment lay untouched since the day he woke up and left for the autograph signing. Even if the room had been lent over to a different tenant, either they hadn’t bothered to change anything or weren’t allowed inside yet. Old Darkwing Duck memorabilia stood intact on the surfaces and walls, now collecting dust. His robe was still on the couch, and breadcrumbs from breakfast were scattered around the floor and coffee table.</p><p>Picking up a trophy he’d been awarded during his time on Darkwing Duck, he dusted it off and admired his reflection within. He looked over the photographs of himself with adoring fans, the show’s director, and even his ex-girlfriend.</p><p>At the sight of his ex-girlfriend, his beak wrinkled, wondering why he still had her photo when she’d broken his heart long ago. By comparison, he regarded the pictures of his fans with both nostalgic fondness and embarrassment.<br/>Jim’s relationship with his fans was conflicted, to say the least. He used to love the attention he got, but now? What else did he see in them besides a bunch of nerds holding on to a washed-up actor who hadn't seen the limelight in years and was only willing to accept shoddy autographs and give him their money?</p><p>He brushed a hand across the table, sending the photographs clattering to the ground. Huffing, he turned to the kitchen.</p><p>His kitchen was plain, with only the bare necessities intact; a stove, a fridge, and cabinets. Mold grew around the corners, and water dripped from the sink’s faucet.</p><p>Upon opening the fridge, Jim was met with a sour odor, reeling as he saw how moldy and spoilt the food had gotten. He slapped his forehead and chastised himself for not stocking up more on dry goods. There was, however, water and alcohol left over.</p><p> </p><p>"Well," he drawled, "Hello."</p><p>He grabbed a water bottle and twisted off the cap, turning his head back and gulping down the contents. Lukewarm as it was, the water still refreshed his intense thirst, soothing his throat. He grabbed another bottle as his throat begged for more and gulped it down.</p><p>What he had left were bottles of alcohol. Maybe later, he thought.</p><p>Exhaling, he walked into the bathroom, holding his still-growling stomach.</p><p>Just like the living room and kitchen, everything remained. It didn’t quite smell here, but the sink and toilet were both dirty, and the mirror dusted over.</p><p>After washing his face off with water from the faucet, he was mildly surprised to see himself in the mirror, wiping the dust off. He knew he looked different but didn’t realize just how much he’d changed. He bared his sharp, yellowed teeth.</p><p>He hadn’t seen his own face in such a long time that it was a relief to see it again. Not being able to know what he looked like had been torture for him. He took off his mask and hat and surveyed himself in the mirror intently, taking in every feature he had.</p><p>His eyes were the most striking feature beyond his clothing, swirling blue and green with bloodshot veins creeping at the corners. They were sunken into his skull, ringed with dark circles. </p><p>Squinting, he tried to imagine himself in his prime; young and handsome and fluffy. Instead of a transformation like he’d witnessed in the sewers, his reflected self stared back at him.</p><p>"Bah," He huffed, placing his hat and mask back on.</p><p>Swinging open the medicine cabinet, he was relieved to see his medicinal bottles. Just seeing the painkillers reminded him of the pain snaking through his hips and hands. </p><p>Taking the bottle of painkillers, he grabbed a bottle of vodka once he retreated to the kitchen, and headed to the living room where he plopped down on the couch.</p><p>“Movie night,” he mumbled, reaching towards a remote on the coffee table and falling off the couch. His hand scrambled and slapped around the table before finding the remote, and he turned on the television.</p><p>The sudden light from the screen caught him off guard. He shielded his eyes with a yelp as memories of the explosion came flooding back to him. Cursing, he rubbed his eyes and blinked as they adjusted to the light. Once his vision settled in, he saw Darkwing Duck's face on the screen.</p><p>His face. </p><p>Smiling.</p><p>He shook his head and grumbled, “What are you so happy about?”</p><p>He watched as his younger self ran across rooftops and fought his enemies, nostalgia bubbling up in his chest.</p><p>Jim recognized this episode.  He knew all of them by heart, as he often re-watched his VHS collection, but he remembered this one in particular. It was the pilot episode. He looked so young here, not even 21. His cheeks were a healthy white sheen, and his eyes glowed with a sense of idealism and hope yet to be crushed.</p><p>Here, Jim lacked the martial arts skills he'd develop later that year. He did not have his gas gun yet, and the special effects were even more primitive than in the show proper. Jim cringed as he heard his squeaky voice on the screen, introducing himself as Darkwing Duck to his enemies with all the bravado of a superhero but little of the proper acting skills.</p><p>It had been his big break in the television entertainment industry. If he leaned in, he could see his younger self shiver with worry, nervous about the pilot’s reception.</p><p>“You’re gonna go far, kid,” he took his painkillers and downed it with alcohol. Bad idea, he knew, but he didn’t care.</p><p>His eyelids growing heavy, he turned the TV off, abandoned his pills and alcohol, and retreated into his bedroom. </p><p>His bed was still unmade, Darkwing Duck posters still on the walls. Something deep inside him said, no matter how tired he was, he didn't want to be here. He realized was as he looked around the walls and his eyes locked onto a particular newspaper page near the curtained windows.</p><p>Eyebrows furrowing, he ripped it off the wall and read the headline.</p><p>NEGATIVE RECEPTION CAUSED DARKWING DUCK'S CANCELLATION, SOURCES SAY. St. Canard Times, dated December 1992.</p><p>It wasn't all true: Darkwing Duck was not canceled for poor reception; it had been popular for its time. It was just a blend of unfortunate circumstances that Jim had no way of controlling---</p><p>He shook his head. Why was this here? What purpose did it serve besides to remind him of his greatest failure? The darkest moment in his life? He folded the paper in half and grumbled.</p><p>Jim slid the glass door to the balcony open, feeling the stiff wind pass through his feathers. Gripping onto the railing and looking over St. Canard, he thought about his next course of action, granted that nobody would catch him here first. </p><p>Jim still held the folded newspaper in his fist. His brows raised as he looked down at the paper. He stared at the crumpled headline.</p><p>NEGATIVE RECEPTION CAUSED DARKWING DUCK'S CANCELLATION...</p><p>NEGATIVE RECEPTION... DARKWING DUCK...</p><p>NEGA... DUCK?</p><p> </p><p>Eyes still fixed on the headline, Jim grinned. His grin grew wider and sharper, his mind stirred, a broken record going around his head, saying revenge, revenge, revenge...</p><p>He wasn't here to eat or drink something or watch an old episode of his show. He was here to exact revenge on the duck that dared to replace him and ruin his life. And the answer to how he would carry it out was on this piece of newspaper.</p><p>Cackling, his laughter grew as he retreated into his bedroom, stuffing the scrap of paper into his coat and tearing down the posters. In a whirlwind, he tossed the pillows and blanket aside, knocked over the wardrobe chest, shattered the mirror, and spat onto a portrait of himself.</p><p>He went into the kitchen and turned the stove on, cranking every burner to High, watching as flames ignited out from the stovetop, heat warming his face. He did the same for the oven, stuffing in the posters and moldy food from the fridge and setting the temperature to its highest setting.</p><p>Ignoring the bathroom, he headed to his living room.</p><p>He looked around and found a lighter which hadn't been in use for months. He flicked it, chuckling as the ember came alive. </p><p>Spilling the rest of his alcohol over the floor and TV, he watched as electrical sparks flew and smoke wafted out through the malfunctioning television interior. He threw the lighter down, stepping back as flames roared and the TV’s glass screen cracked under the scorching heat. </p><p>Smoke filled the room, sending him into a coughing fit, and realizing the smoke alarm’s battery had died some time ago. </p><p>Instead of beeping, he heard sirens.</p><p>Cursing, he threw the front door open and ran out of the apartment floor, sliding down the railing, and fleeing from the fire.</p><p>As he ran, his lungs strained against each gasp, burning with every breath, and his heart dared to break free from his ribcage. His mind fogged, ironically considering the smoke that filled the apartment.</p><p>Tripping over a rock, he tumbled over the pavement with a scream of agony, coming to a stop at the ledge he'd previously scaled. Once the pulsating stars disappeared from his vision, he went on his stomach and pushed himself up, staring at the spectacle in front of him.</p><p>The entire sixth floor burnt up in angry red hues, flames licking at the walls and smoke climbing out from the windows. He grinned as he watched, marveling at the destruction he’d just caused.</p><p>Amidst the chaos, the sirens drew in, red and blue lights flashing from the corners of Jim’s eyes. With another laugh, he fell onto his back to the ground, staring at the sky. His laughter was the only thing he could hear as it drowned out every other noise.</p><p>He wasn’t alone anymore.<br/>_____________________________________________________________</p><p>1990</p><p>When Jim opened his eyes, he found himself staring at his reflection in a mirror. He grinned, showing off his pearly whites. His Darkwing Duck outfit was only halfway done, and the makeup department hadn’t been called in yet, but he knew he was handsome.  </p><p>“Jim? You’re on in 10.” A voice drawled from beyond the door, followed by quick knocking.</p><p>“Give me a couple more seconds, Frank,” Jim muttered, placing his costume hat on haphazardly, buttoning down his purple coat. Really, he preferred yellow.</p><p>Taking a deep breath, he gazed intently at his reflection, trying to imagine himself on screen. He wouldn’t chicken out.</p><p>“You are Darkwing Duck,” he said to the mirror, “You are the terror that flaps in the night! This is it, this is your big break. You’ll be on television screens everywhere! Don’t screw it up.”</p><p>“Jim?” The voice interrupted.</p><p>“One damn second, Frank!” Jim hissed, turning his head to the door. He went back to the mirror and repeated his mantra. “You are Darkwing Duck! You are the terror that---”</p><p>“Jim! Five minutes!”</p><p>Jim’s fingernails dug into the wooden varnish of his vanity table, gritting his teeth. The ‘Darkwing Duck’ in his reflection was taking on an unheroic appearance, menacing and snarling at himself. Snapping out of his brief fury, he sighed and stormed towards the door.</p><p>Assistant Director Frank waited outside the trailer, his eyes wide and his mouth pulled into a puckered frown. </p><p>“Makeup department?” Jim breathed.</p><p>“Right over there, sir.”</p><p>Jim scoffed, pushing Frank away and stepping onto the set. As he looked around, he took in the little slice of St. Canard that the director got permission to film in.</p><p>A few shops surrounded the block, currently empty per filming rules. The street was clean of any litter, and traffic cones blocked off the way into the set, so no vehicles would pass. Lighting and cameras ringed around the center of the set, props already in place.</p><p>“Not bad,” Jim whispered, “Could be a little more flashy, though. Maybe tonight.”</p><p>“We film in thirty seconds,” the director exclaimed. “Please be in your relevant positions ASAP.”</p><p>Jim took a seat in his acting chair, staying still as his makeup artist dusted his face with sparkling powder and applied subtle eyeliner.</p><p>This is it, he thought. From this second on, everything he would do as an actor for the first time would dictate his future reputation. In his mind, he kept reminding himself of his role as Darkwing Duck.</p><p>He absorbed the scene in front of him, closed his eyes, and...</p><p>___________________________________________________________________</p><p>Now</p><p>Eyes snapping open, Jim realized he wasn’t in his acting chair, nor was he in costume. He looked down to see a simple blue gown partially hidden by a starchy white blanket. The technical sounds he’d heard weren’t from studio cameras rolling, they were from the heart monitor. The streets of St. Canard dissolved into the reality of being in a hospital room.</p><p>An attempt to raise his hand to his head was interrupted by the feeling of medical restraints against his wrists and ankles, and in a panic, he tried to struggle free of them. His heart raced against his chest and he collapsed back into the pillow with a weary gasp.</p><p>“Good, you’ve been out for days.”<br/>Jim turned his head to the source of the voice. A nurse glared at him, sitting on an adjacent stool with poise, her white coat contrasting against her black plumage.</p><p>“Don’t wear your joints out, you need them.” She stood up,  moved the blanket aside, and examined his wrists. Jim imagined breaking free from his restraints and choking her.</p><p>“Ideally,” she continued, “you would be put on trial before being thrown into jail, but your health proved so poor that you needed mandatory hospital admittance.”  Her long beak pursed into a humorless smile, “The chief officer deems you a danger to both society and yourself.”</p><p>Jim’s brain tried to catch up with everything she said, still stuck on the phrase “on trial” and trudging its way through “being thrown into jail.”  His tongue swam in his mouth, and he fidgeted with the restraints again.</p><p>“They put enough morphine inside of you to knock out a horse, that’s how dangerous you are,” The nurse checked his vitals, and made sure his IV bag was filled.  “Do you have any recollection of what you just did? Setting fire to an apartment and fleeing from the scene before collapsing from exhaustion. It’s interesting because approximately a week ago, a former actor tried to sabotage a movie set and... disappeared. Presumed dead.”</p><p>She leaned in close to Jim, who by instinct shrank back into his bed, preparing to spit into her face.</p><p>“I’m not surprised, Mr. Starling.” She smirked.</p><p>Jim’s brain had at last reached the finish line, his eyes squinting in contempt.</p><p>“You’re not just a nurse, are you?” He hissed.</p><p>She scoffed. “Maybe you’re smarter than you look. I’ve been studying you.”</p><p>“Are you another one of my stalkers?”</p><p>“Heavens, no,” she leaned against a wall. “I don’t give two hoots about that mediocre old show. I just know who you are. I’ve been collecting some data, not just on you, but on Drake Mallard too.”</p><p>Jim’s eyes nearly bulged from his head, and he attempted to lunge forward, the restraints tightening against his joints.</p><p>“Drake Mallard?!” He screeched, heart monitor spiking and beeping rapidly.</p><p>The nurse glowered, holding out her hands and hissing, “Shut up! Do you want to---”</p><p>“Excuse me...” Another nurse poked his head out from the door. </p><p>The woman paused and turned her head to the other person, her demeanor changing in an instant. In a soft tone, she said to him, “Don’t worry, I’m handling it.”</p><p>She pulled on his IV line and pretended to check the heart monitor. “He just woke up, it’s normal to be disoriented, even panicky in situations like this.”</p><p>“What---” Jim croaked out, and the nurse shot him a shut up or I’ll kill you type of look.</p><p>The man raised an eyebrow. “Okay. If it’s just a false alarm, turn the alert off next time. And be careful.”</p><p>The nurse merely nodded at him, shutting the door once he left. Once she turned around to face Jim, she shot him a venomous glare.</p><p>“You idiot, do you want to get out of here or not?”</p><p>Jim hissed, “I object to being called an idiot!”</p><p>“Quiet!” she barked, raising a hand with index finger pointed up. Jim noticed the unnatural motion of her arm and wondered if she wore a prosthetic.</p><p>“Are you a secret agent?” Jim squinted. </p><p>In one episode of Darkwing Duck, the hero had to go undercover while working for a secret agency, changing his identity and mannerisms temporarily.</p><p>“If that’s what you want to think,” She walked over to the bed, and leaned into Jim’s face again. “Look, the cameras are on in this room, they can see everything. You nearly screwed it up for me once, don’t you do that again!”</p><p>“Wait!” Jim exclaimed, “Go back to Drake Mallard! What do you know about him?”</p><p>“Enough to satisfy you,” she said. “I can’t supply more details at the moment, it’s sensitive information.”</p><p>Jim pondered this over. “So... to get him, I have to...do whatever you say?”</p><p>The nurse nodded. Jim raised a brow, not sure he was buying the deal. He didn’t work for anybody and wanted to keep it that way.<br/>“Just how much do you know?” He asked.</p><p>She smiled, this time with a hint of amusement. “Your real surname is Duckman. Your parents’ names are Basil and Nina. You graduated from St. Canard University with a Bachelor’s degree in acting.”</p><p>Jim’s feathers bristled, “That’s all on my Quackipedia page.”</p><p>“Your blood type is AB,” she added.</p><p>“Oh.”</p><p>“As you’ve pointed out,” she continued, “I’m not an actual nurse. I have my methods of acquiring information, and that was how I found you. Again, sensitive information. The bottom line is, if you behave and do what I say, you won’t be left rotting in jail.”</p><p>Jim struggled against the restraints once more, “What’s in it for me, besides completing my revenge plot?”</p><p>“You’ll be rewarded handsomely. All the weapons you can access, and more.”</p><p>Jim said nothing for several seconds, ruminating on everything she said. He realized he was still restrained, facing the threat of a prison sentence or worse. He had nowhere else to go. Nothing left to lose.</p><p>What a plan, he thought. </p><p>“I’m in.” He nodded.</p><p>“Good. You can refer to me as Ms. Heron and nothing else,” she stood tall, her shadow casting black across the bed.</p><p>“Ji--” He shook his head, realizing there was no point in going by his old name anymore. Jim Starling was well and truly dead. He would be reborn again, someone new.</p><p> </p><p>He remembered the newspaper headline and corrected himself. </p><p>“Negaduck.”</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>